


A Necessary Amount

by ghostlin



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 03:43:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2135763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostlin/pseuds/ghostlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He flatters me. That's why I help him with Latin." </p>
<p>"And English, and Trig."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Necessary Amount

**Author's Note:**

> I don't claim any knowledge of Latin or the development of the microprocessor in the 1950s, so I'm sorry if anything is wrong with that stuff.

_Latin_

 

“Adhevo… prohevo… you mixed up the definitions,” Steven looks up at him nervously. “I mean, it’s ok -- they both technically translate to ‘transport‘, but…”

Charlie watches him make an amendment in the margin of his notebook, writing in a slow, precise script. Even though the corrections are significantly fewer than they used to be, it still stings. He tries not to care, and then bites out a retort before he can stop himself.

“Why couldn’t they just pick one? Why do these people need six words for everything?”

To his annoyance, Steven smiles. “’These people’ would probably ask the same of English. We use a ton of synonyms -- think about the word, I don’t know, love. Passion, adoration, infatuation, er -- ardor --”

“You’re blushing,” Charlie says, gleeful. “and you just said the word ‘ardor’ like it‘s gonna chase you down a dark alley and have its way with --”

“I’m not,” Steven says, glowing pink. “I’m not blushing.”

“Beg to differ.” It’s probably all down below his shirt collar too, Charlie thinks.

“The point,” Steven adjusts his glasses, something he always seems to do when flustered. “Is that all those words have subtly different meanings. So your language can have more of a personal --”

“-- Ardor.” Charlie grins wickedly.

Steven’s not looking at him, but he’s stopped marking the vocabulary test as well. “Hence, it’s worth learning as much Latin vocab as possible.”

“Yeah, if I ever meet an ancient Roman, I’m all set. I‘ll dazzle ‘em with my linguistic skill to get out of having to fight in one of those gladiator arenas.”

The smile that Charlie receives is mirthful and inclusive this time; Steven’s reluctance to lark around momentarily melts away. “Latin has some uses, _impudens periure_.”

“Yeah, like talking crap, apparently,” Secretly, Charlie likes the odd Latin excursions Steven makes, thinks they’re cool, but he’d never ever admit to it.

“You’re not doing your conjugations.“ Steven says suddenly. Inwardly, Charlie sighs. “Come on, I have a history essay to finish!”

Over the next week or so, Charlie begins to slip the word ‘ardor’ into conversations at dinner and in study hall. His all-time favourite reaction ends up a tie: Steven spluttering, setting down his glass of water and coughing while simultaneously feigning nonchalance and waving away Neil’s concern, and Steven dropping his algebra textbook on an enraged Cameron’s foot.

 

_English_

 

Charlie can’t remember when Steven agreed to help him with half his subjects.

It could’ve been a year ago, two years, but he has a vague idea it’s somehow always been this way with them. He’s also under the impression they used to timetable their meetings, and set objectives. It probably hasn’t always consisted of Charlie wandering into Steven’s room and making himself comfortable on his bed until Steven nudges his shoes off the duvet.

“A limerick?” Steven waves the crumpled notepaper at Charlie, glancing over it. “You wrote a limerick for Keating‘s assignment?”

“What can I say? It came from the heart.” Charlie smirks as Steven begins to read, growing redder and redder.

Eventually he drops it in the space between them, looking at Charlie in shock. “You’re not seriously going to read that?”

“What?” Charlie snatches it up, folding it and putting it back into his blazer pocket. “That’s the clean version!”

He immediately starts laughing because Steven looks so anxious. “I’m not really gonna read it!” He waits until Steven relaxes before adding: “I have a _way_ better one.”

“I don’t think this is what Keating meant when he told us to strive to find our own voice.” Steven mutters, picking it up to read through it again.

“Oh yeah?” Charlie raises an eyebrow. “What’s yours about, then?”

Steven shows him the verses he’s written so far. He likes poetry with a strong rhythm and a predictable rhyme scheme, like the one he’d read at the first Dead Poets meeting. If a poem doesn’t end in a jubilant chant he always feels a bit disappointed.

Charlie whistles, low. “How’re you going to finish it?  _Then I saw the Congo, creeping through the black --_ ”

Steven shoves the poem under a pile of geometry notes. “It’s a work in progress,” He crumples up a piece of scrap paper. “I don‘t really understand why you‘re here right now.”

“…English?” Charlie says, after thinking about it for a moment. Admittedly, he’s spent the past hour doodling and thinking of rhyming couplets that will make Meeks blush.

“You‘re better than me at English -- when you can be bothered,” Steven says. “And somehow Keating has managed to make you bother.”

“Want me to go away?” Charlie retorts, suddenly irritated.

“No -- I mean -- I’m just saying, what do you need help with?” Steven traces the spine of his physics textbook, voice light and deliberately offhand. “Why are you here?”

Charlie stands up abruptly and starts to gather his books together. Underneath the anger, he looks strangely hurt. Bewildered, Steven watches him cross the room.

He pauses at the door. “Maybe I just wanted to hang around with you. I forgot that can only happen when I can’t conjugate Latin verbs.” Charlie’s voice is heavy with sarcasm, but it’s also shaking.

“I didn’t -- Charlie, don’t be stupid --”

“Yeah, fucking stupid Charlie.”

Steven flinches as the door shuts rather loudly.

He spends a good fifteen minutes trying to work out what made Charlie mad. Maybe he shouldn’t have said Charlie was good at English; maybe the improvement was meant to pass unnoticed, so that it didn’t hurt Charlie’s image or something.

_Maybe I just wanted to hang around with you._

Steven returns to his algebra homework, trying and failing not to feel miserable.

 

_Trigonometry_

 

“I’m telling you, Trig textbooks beat Chemistry or History, you’re gonna have to trust me on this.”

“And you’ve obviously constructed a million catapult bases in your time,” Pitts glares at Cameron. “We only have four Trig textbooks --”

“It’s the height, we need the _height_ ,” Neil takes a drag of his cigarette, laughing. He slings an arm around Todd’s shoulders. “What’s the trajectory, skipper?”

Charlie rolls his eyes at the way Neil and Todd put their heads together, mumbling and snickering. He catches Steven’s eye and doesn’t like the look he’s getting, a mixture of reproach and unabashed amusement.

He remembers the bottle of whisky and snatches out of Knox’s hands.

“Hey,” Knox protests. “Some of us need to drown our sorrows! And you already drank like half of it!”

Ignoring him, Charlie gulps down about half an inch before starting to cough at the burn of it. He wipes a hand over his mouth, and Steven’s still looking at him over the catapult plans.

He doesn’t like the look; it’s full of concern. He feels another wave of remorse for storming out of Steven’s room earlier. He hates how impulsive and irrational he can be, he hates Steven’s voice when it goes all detached and indifferent towards him, and most of all he hates himself for caring so much about all of it.

“Ok, we need two more or it’s just not going to be tall enough,” Pitts says, sounding frustrated.

Neil looks away from the window and catches Charlie’s eye. “Since you’re not doing anything -- two more Trig textbooks?”

“Should be a couple in our room,” Pitts adds, glancing at Meeks.

“Yeah, should be.” Meeks says.

Charlie looks at him. “Coming with?”

His voice is casual, and Steven’s sure he’s the only person who notices the apologetic undertone. The others cluster around the window, exchanging sarcastic remarks and easy laughter. Charlie’s at the edge of the group, now half standing from his spot on Neil's bed.

Wordlessly, Steven follows him out of the room.

 

-

 

Meeks’ room seems very quiet in comparison to Neil’s. Beyond the window, the stone archways of the courtyard are lit pale in the moonlight. Charlie reaches to flick the light on but his hand falls to his side; he’s momentarily distracted by the diagrams pinned to the wall.

“Illicit activity in dorm room B14,” he mumbles, inspecting them. “Steven, I do believe that the affixing of posters and other material to the walls is strictly forbidden. Shame on you.”

Meeks appears behind him, closing the door. “You won’t -- er --” Belatedly, he pulls a couple of the diagrams down. “-- Gerard… well, both of us, we wanted to have a -- a more _visual_ \-- Charlie, you’re not gonna tell, are you?”

He stops talking, mostly because Charlie’s laughing. He continues to laugh for a good few minutes, to the point where Steven’s nervousness begins to melt into irritation.

“Sometimes, it’s like you just met me,” Charlie says eventually, clapping Steven hard on the shoulder. “Yeah, Steven. I’m gonna tell Nolan. Then I’m gonna turn in all my smokes, and Neil’s tobacco --”

“Ok, ok, you made your point.” Steven says dryly, shouldering past him and beginning to sort through the mass of notebooks on Pitts’ desk. “Here’s _my_ Trig book, at any rate --”

“What even is this?”

Steven turns. Charlie’s kneeling beside the bed, resting his elbows on the duvet. He’s studying the punch-cards tacked up right by the headboard, pride of place.

“IBM cards,” he walks across the room, getting down beside Charlie. “They can be read by an automatic computing engine -- see the holes punched in them? You feed it in, and the machine reads the pattern --” Steven’s fingers skitter along the wall, pointing. “-- so you can send information that can be interpreted… what?”

Steven’s hand, outstretched into the air, stills. It’s as if he’s reaching towards something he wants badly for Charlie to grasp. Mostly, Charlie’s noticing the freckles on the back of his hand and the way his voice has fallen into an excitable whisper.

“What?” Charlie says softly. “Go on, I was listening. Punch card machines?”

“One day… I mean, the rate at which these machines can do calculations -- it’s gonna _change_ things, Charlie. I want to go to England,” Steven says, talking fast. “To Manchester. I want to write these input codes, for computers. That’s what I’m gonna do.”

He looks breathless, full of trepidation and excitement. Charlie only realises he’s staring when Steven’s expression falters a little.

“I know it’s probably… not that interesting.”

“No.” Charlie says it so suddenly that Steven jumps a little. “It is interesting. It‘s very interesting.”

“You don’t even sound like you’re being sarcastic.” Steven says, voice quiet.

Charlie grins. “Don’t tell the others.”

Steven smiles back hesitantly.

Charlie experiences an abrupt sensation; envy mixed together with something stronger, something that frightens him. He’s jealous of the certainty in Steven’s face, the way he can see his future mapped reassuringly in front of him, his talent in a field of work he loves. He never wants to leave this room. Take me with you, he wants to say. I won’t be any trouble.

The lie is so obvious he can’t even fool himself with it.

Sometimes he thinks Steven’s allowed him this far already, and made a space in his life that Charlie probably doesn’t deserve to occupy. He loathes himself for wanting to see how far he can test its limits.

“…under Gerard’s bed, probably. They tend to fall over the side of the desk, we stack them too high, I’ve told him a million times -- Charlie?”

He blinks. Steven’s looking down at him, his face full of confusion. “Um -- sure,” Charlie says. He stands up too, and Steven resumes his search of Pitts’ desk. “So when did you know you wanted to punch holes in cards when you grow up?”

Steven flips him off without looking round. “It’s been a growing ambition of mine this past year. In between building the radio, of course.”

“Must be nice,” Charlie says suddenly, without thinking first. “To know for sure that your life is gonna turn out like you want it to.”

The sound of rustling paper ceases, and Steven turns to look at him. Charlie can see a look of puzzlement on his face, half lit in the moonlight. “You make it sound like I‘m not -- like I‘m not worried. About anything.”

Charlie says nothing.

“There’s more to life, Charlie,” Steven says, and his voice gets the way it does when he‘s determined to make Charlie understand some maths principle or historical event.

“Like what?” The words are loud, derisive, and crueller than Charlie had intended. His fingers dig into the windowsill, hands white knuckled.

“Like… I have this terrible vision of myself,” Steven shakes his head, joining Charlie by the window. The sky outside is wide and open and starless. “Wearing a polo neck jumper, and mowing a square lawn with no flowerbeds while my wife stands at the window washing the dishes. And I can tell she’s making sure the lines I mow are straight, god forbid the lines aren’t straight --” _You sound insane_ , he says to himself.  _Stop talking._

Charlie’s watching him with a singularly Charlie-ish expression. The lines of his mouth are curling with amusement but his gaze is unnervingly focused and serious. Out of the two of them, Steven’s the scientist, and he doesn’t like the way he feels right now, like a lab specimen that’s just done something unanticipated.

“What?” Steven mutters eventually. He wishes they were smoking, just so he’d have something to occupy his hands.

“Nothing.”

He’s still certain that he’s missing out on a private joke. Perhaps Charlie senses his discomfort, because then he says, “I just kind of thought you were gunning for the whole white picket fence thing.”

“Ok, I know you think I’m boring.” Steven traces the window ledge lightly with his fingertips. Dim laugher sounds from across the hallway.

“I don’t think you’re boring,” Charlie sounds genuinely surprised.

“You’re probably right,” Steven continues, appearing not to have heard him. “I’m not Neil or Todd, I’m not _you_.”

“Who told you that you were boring? You’re so --” Charlie breaks off, gesturing to him with both hands, and then glancing around at the radio equipment on the desk, electronics manuals lying open on top of stacks of schoolbooks, the illicit diagrams tacked to the walls. “--  _you_ , and the thing is, you’re not even trying to be. You just  _are_.”

He has a vague feeling that he’s not making much sense, and the whisky has made him both earnest and incoherent.

None of it seems to matter when Steven smiles, hesitant. “I try pretty hard, actually.”

Charlie watches Steven return to his search. He’s leaning over his mattress, profile intent, and when he glances up he smiles again, fleeting and unabashed, and all Charlie can think about is how there isn’t an ounce of pretence in him at all.

“You know you can do anything, right? That picket fence isn’t inevitable -- Keating said so, didn’t he?”

Steven can hear the poorly masked uncertainly behind the sarcasm. It‘s then that he locates the second Trig book, and deposits it on the bed before moving to sit beside Charlie.

“Sure.” He picks at the edge of the blanket, noticing Charlie’s hand beside his, the nails on it bitten to the quick.

“Don’t humour me.” Charlie says, quiet. Steven doesn’t know how to respond to this mood of his, he’s serious and sad and looks very young, sat there in the darkness.

On impulse, he covers Charlie’s hand with his own. “I don’t know what else I’m meant to be saying here.”

To his surprise, Charlie takes his hand and curls their fingers together. Steven wonders if he‘s meant to be feeling the sudden, sweeping ache in his chest, because it doesn’t seem like a normal thing to feel, sitting on his bed at eleven thirty on a chilly school night with a friend.

(And Charlie is a friend, no matter how much they dress it up otherwise. Study-partner, schoolmate, purveyor of witty repartee, tease, maverick. Friend, most of all he’s a friend.)

“Say you’ll try to live deliberately, then.” Charlie sounds upset. His voice shakes, at any rate, and he looks into Steven’s eyes like he’s trying to see into his thoughts and can’t quite make them out.

Steven wonders how many people have seen Charlie like this, because it should be the antithesis of everything that he is and yet somehow it makes perfect sense.

“I’m flattered by this concern,” he says gently, trying and failing to keep his voice measured. “Especially considering how intoxicated you are right now.”

“I think sober me is an idiot,” Charlie whispers, leaning right into Steven’s neck. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“Ok,” Steven says. He’s trying, with limited success, to prise Charlie off him.

“Like, I want to tell you things right now that I’d _never_ \--” Charlie suddenly notices the Trigonometry textbooks stacked at the end of the bed. “-- hey, they’re right there!”

Steven laughs. “Wow, you found them!”

Charlie looks genuinely pleased with himself. Steven wonders if it’s immoral to ask him a question right now, but he’s probably never going to find out otherwise.

“Charlie…” he waits until Charlie’s looking at him before continuing. “You call me Steven when we’re studying together, but you call me Meeks everywhere else.”

When he doesn‘t reply, Steven realises that he needs to clarify the question. “Um… why?”

Inexplicably, Charlie touches Steven‘s cheek with his fingertips. Then he pats Steven’s shoulder several times, as if this answers the question. He turns away, opening the door and walking out of the room into the corridor’s yellow light.

“That clears that up, then.” Steven mutters to himself, before following in Charlie’s footsteps.

 

-

 

“How’re you feeling?”

Charlie opens a reluctant eye, spots Steven leaning against the door with his hands in his pockets, and turns his face into the pillow, groaning. After a minute, he looks up, blinking. Steven hasn’t moved.

“Did they buy it? Am I kicked out?” His voice is rough and cracked.

“Did they buy your sudden, inexplicable flu virus?” Steven laughs. “Probably not, but you’re off the hook anyway. They decided to quarantine you in here just in case it spreads. Although I’m not sure hangovers are contagious.”

“You’re saying a lot of words in a loud voice,” Charlie’s glare comes from behind a tangled fringe. “Don’t.”

“Sorry.” Steven says, in a stage whisper.

Charlie collapses back onto the pillows. He thinks he preferred Neil’s presence; about half an hour previously, he’d tiptoed in, grinning, left a glass of water on his bedside table, and tiptoed out again.

Water. He sits up, clumsily reaching for the glass. Steven darts forward just before he knocks it over and holds it for him while he drinks.

“You’re a lightweight.” Steven says fondly. He’s trying very hard not to find this hilarious. All of Charlie’s usual decadent nonchalance has vanished; he resembles a sulky cat. With this thought in mind, Steven brushes back his fringe, combing through it with his fingers.

“M’not a lightweight,” Charlie leans into the touch.

“You don’t have a temperature at least.” Steven mutters. “It’s five o’clock, you should really be feeling better by now.”

In response, Charlie drops back into bed, hand on his forehead. “I am never drinking again. This is a pledge. Make a note of this, it’s important. Also --” he looks sidelong at Steven. “Check my vitals.”

“You’re not dying,” Steven says in a low voice. “You’re just an idiot. There’s a difference.” Nevertheless, he rolls up the cuff of Charlie’s sleeve, touching his fingers to his wrist. He feels the muted pulse beneath his skin, and he smiles. “There. You’re alive.”

Charlie pulls his wrist away, takes Steven’s hand and puts it on his neck. “Are you sure?”

“I’m pretty sure.” Steven doesn’t feel for the pulse, but he doesn’t move his hand away either.

“I was weird last night.” Charlie mumbles. “And… the other day. I was weird the other day.”

Steven works out that he’s talking about the day Charlie had walked out of their study session, and then hadn’t spoken to him for two days. He then realises that this is as close to an apology as he’s likely to get.

“Yeah, you were.” He says quietly. They share a grin, and suddenly everything feels ok.

“If it bothers you,” Charlie says, after a pause so long Steven thinks he’s falling asleep. “I won’t call you Meeks. Ever.”

Steven looks down at his closed eyelids, glad, in that moment, that Charlie can‘t see his face. “I don’t mind.” Charlie opens his eyes and looks at him with an unreadable expression. Then he adds, “I think I’m Steven when it matters.”

Charlie sits up and shuffles back against the headboard. He looks like he’s thinking hard about something. “Do _I_ matter?” _Do I matter to you_ , he means, and he knows they both hear it.

“Yeah. Well -- you know. A little bit. A necessary amount, I’d say.” Steven fiddles with his glasses, and then the edge of the blanket.

“A necessary amount.”

“Yeah.”

A smile is growing on Charlie’s face, a smile that reaches his eyes in the fading light and somehow makes him want to look away.

“What?” Steven says eventually, feeling uncomfortable.

When Charlie replies, it sounds like he’s being careful, measuring his words. “A lot of synonyms for necessary. Indispensable. Vital. Essential.”

“So?” Steven says, and it comes out higher than he’d hoped.

“So you matter a necessary amount to me, too.”

“Oh,” Steven says, in a small voice. Charlie’s fingers brush his cheek, like the night before, and this time he gets it. “ _Oh_.”

“For a genius, you’re --” Charlie’s highly amusing retort is cut off abruptly when Steven kisses him, but he’s about as far from caring as it is possible to be.


End file.
